


Hallelujah (Amongst Other Things)

by Dream_tempo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, I blame George Blagden, It just happened, M/M, Oops, POV Second Person, i didn't mean to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:15:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_tempo/pseuds/Dream_tempo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie convinces Cas to perform at the school talent show. It goes about how well he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hallelujah (Amongst Other Things)

**Author's Note:**

> This may or may not be a prequel to [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/541984), I haven’t decided. It prolly is. Anyways! Whole thing brought about because [this one dark haired, blue eyed angel](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aZMScOsHykQ&safe=active), reminded me of the other one, aka Cas, in my life. :P

You’re not sure how you were convinced to do this.

It had all happened so fast.

Honestly, it’s all Charlie’s fault. Sitting up on the stage that suddenly seems at once too small and to stretch on for an eternity on either side, you clear your throat and adjust your perch on a wooden stool, wincing when the reverb echoes loudly through silent room. You can’t see their faces, can’t see their eyes, but that only makes it worse. They are this endless, anonymous throng. Quiet as the grave, they are judgmental simply by existing- their heavy breaths seeming to egg you on to finally start.

You pull at the collar of your sweater—far too hot for the stage lights that sting in your eyes and make you sweat from every pore. Your worn guitar slips from your grip every few seconds, your nails gouging into the soft wood and faded stickers. You try, really try, to get the words to come out, but they stop in your throat every time you lean forward and start to strum, making you choke and sputter.

You can feel the crowd getting on edge, the awkwardness in the room turning to a thick tension, a certain electricity in the air that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. You tell yourself, try and convince your body, that it’s all just a stupid talent show, that in five, ten years no one will ever remember this.

It’s not a big deal. Three and a half minutes. In the scheme of things, that’s absolutely nothing.

And yet—

You freeze.

You’ve done this a thousand times before, in front of other people even. Back when you used to sing at family get-together’s and holidays, for your father’s congregation, when you went to camp for the summer. Most of the time they were just soft little hymns, a happy jingle meant for when spirits were high and people… _jovial._

This, this is inexorably different. This means something. This is big.

You’ve had the words, the chords, the intent worked out for so long. It’s the first song you ever learned for yourself, the first time you understood what music _could be._ You’d kept it secret, a little treasure for just yourself. Something to do for when you’re happy, when you’re sad, when you couldn’t possibly describe how you feel. You kept it close to your chest, sacred.

And now? Now you’re mean to bare this all before a jury of your peers—to show them your soul and let them have at. You are putting your very being into their hands to appraise and assign worth, and you’re terrified.

You can’t do this. You can’t look at them. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t.

You close your eyes and try to breathe. In the darkness, you pretend as though they’re not there. You pretend like you’re alone in your bedroom, like always. You imagine that _he’s_ there, that instead of hiding behind all this, that instead of being the coward that you clearly are, you worked up the courage to do this in private, face-to-face, toe-to-toe.

You imagine him smiling, small and quiet, just for you. Not that smirk that he throws at all the girls, not that dangerous, flirtatious grin. It is soft and inviting. His eyes would be curious but careful, only barely waiting for you to do it on your own time. He would be sitting at the foot of your bed, socked feet poking at your hip when you falter and laugh nervously.

You start to strum, start to sing, and you imagine how his face would light up, how his eyes would get bright and his cheeks would flush and he’d duck his head. You think that he’d understand, that he’d see past all the imagery and the misinterpretations. He’d _know-_ know that you believe in him above all else—that he’s become your faith.

He broke you down. He set you to burn. He made you anew.

And now, now when you look at him, all you can feel is this sense of rapturous relief. Without even knowing, he’s saved you. When you look at him, all you can think, is hallelujah.

Your chest grows tight as the music swells and you think that you might be crying. It should be terrible embarrassing, it should cripple you back up from fear, but yet again, all you feel is this exquisite release. Because you may not have been able to do it better, to do it right, but here in this moment, it is still a confession.

He _is_ out there, somewhere, amidst the faceless masses, and it is enough.

He has heard, and even if he doesn’t know, that’s okay. You’ve always been religious, but now he’s made you spiritual, and neither of them is about being validated, just being heard. It’s about speaking out, and knowing, in your heart of hearts, that you’ve been heard.

God works in mysterious ways, and maybe, just maybe, so does Dean Winchester.

The last notes float out across the auditorium and your eyes finally fly open.

Everything is quiet and you don’t mind. 


End file.
